Through All Time
by sarahandmarquis
Summary: Poppy: a young strong-willed woman sent back in time with her friend, the songbird Christine. Erik: an immortal creature who sews skin on his face to cover burns given to him by devil. This is their story. INCOMPLETE. Based on the 1989 version starring Robert Englund. Rated T for horror.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

Dear Readers,

Before you get worried over me starting another book while I'm still working on The Friend Shop, don't worry. This book is already written and just undergoing some editing before I post. The Friend Shop shouldn't suffer from this new book.

This is a co-authored book by myself and casuallllfollower (four "l's"). She has an account on here (GO FOLLOW HER) and an account under the same name on Wattpad. She will be posting our story on her account on Wattpad in case y'all see it and wonder. It made sense for us to split up the work. We decided that, since she's posting Harry Potter fanfiction, it might be best for me to post it on here.

Now, I won't hold y'all up any longer and we shall launch into the story!

sarahandmarquis

P.S. I will be responding to reviews like I am with The Friend Shop. So, please review and let me know what you think!

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Hilarious Commentary between writers: (Real convos we've had together)

Me: This is weird though but I feel like this fanfic is like a child we raised together, growing him and pointing him in the way he should go. Now he's entering the tough years of high-school, then, it's graduation time. Graduation into the world of fanfiction where he will be loved by others.

Me: Okay, so apparently my brain is weird all the time.

Her: I LOVE IT: I AGREE

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Disclaimer: I do not own the Robert Englund version of the Phantom of the Opera or of the Phantom of the Opera in general. Casuallllfollower and I together own Poppy (don't mess with her) and this story idea.

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 **CHAPTER 1**

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"Rick! Rick! Where are you?" A pretty young woman, pink red hair bouncing on her shoulders, called as she took the steps into the basement of the music library two at time. Waving her hand in front of her face to move the dust from her nose, she poked through the book-filled aisles, calling repeatedly for her brother among the stacks of old documents, stretching on for what seemed like miles.

Finally, from somewhere in the depths of the archives, a young man's voice replied with a quip,

"I only want to see you if you brought Christine with you, Poppy! I have something for her!" Poppy laughed, following his voice through the hazy air until she found him, seated behind a desk with stacks of books walling the grown man in from both sides,

"Yeah, she was just behind me on the stairs coming down. She should be here momentarily. What did you find?" She asked, leaning down on the only part of the dark wood desk visible.

"Music," his snarky reply came, a knowing smile on a cleanly-shaved face. Poppy rolled her eyes and peered at the sheets of music messily spread out in front of him.

"I know that. What kind of music? Something unique?"

"Something classical…" His voice trailed off, and his steely blue eyes peered past her in a sort of haze.

There was a huff, and Christine appeared beside Poppy.

"Did I hear classical?"

"Yes, you did." He handed her the sheet of yellowed music. "It's all I could find but it looked like something you'd enjoy."

Her eyes darted over the piece until her soft and lulling voice began to hum the melody, a look of passion mixed with surprise written across Christine's features.

"It's perfect… is there more?"

"That's it. That's all I could find. They were squished between two books." Rick replied, looking through some books that surrounded him, a particular one in mind. "I had to go through a dozen books to even find a footnote on the composer."

"Where then? Let's go look!" Christine muttered excitedly, "But first, who is the composer?"

"Erik Destler." After finding the source he searched for, Rick skimmed through a book and began to read the footnote he had referred to, "'Known primarily for his unfinished Opera Don Juan Triumphant, Destler's musical reputation is overshadowed by his infamy. He was said to be obsessed with a young opera singer who disappeared without a trace the night of Destler's death. Authorities believe but were never able to prove that the composer was a psychopathic killer responsible for the brutal murders of at least a dozen London residents.'" At the mention of the side job of psychopathic killer, Poppy inclined her head to listen more intently.

"It's so gentle, are you sure it was written by this Erik Destler? If you're pulling my leg, babe, it isn't funny!" Christine said with a bit of giggle as she didn't think him serious. The piece was the closest to a lullaby she'd ever sung, and Rick had always had the ability to fashion odd stories.

"Well, his name is at the top." Poppy inserted, peering over her friend's shoulder. "And…" She took the book from Rick's hands, inspecting it for credibility. "This book seems reliable. I wouldn't think that too many composers of that era would have the same name."

"Well aren't you snarky today," Christine jested, and then turned away from her friend, "I think we should go looking for the rest if my lovely Poppy said it's real."

"You trust her, but not me when it comes to his story?" Rick wondered with evident sarcasm, ignoring the smirks on both his girlfriend and sister's faces.

"Of course she does!" Poppy replied. "Where did you find the original piece so we know where to begin looking for the rest?"

"Right over there, girls, have all the fun you want, but it's almost eleven right now," Rick reminded them with genuine concern after consulting his wristwatch.

"We'll be fine," Christine insisted, pulling her friend towards the dust-covered aisle Rick had so helpfully indicated.

After nearly thirty minutes of poking between dusty books, sneezing with each plume of dust, and growing desperate as they weren't finding anything, Poppy reached up, running her hands over the top bookshelf and her fingers brushed against a small folder. When she pulled it down, the burnt pages seemed to fall to pieces in her fingers.

"Christine! I think I found something…"

Christine set down her own pile of books that were all as disappointingly misleading as the last and looked back at Poppy, her strawberry blonde hair draping over an antiquated book.

"Now that looks promising… probably better than the junk I've been pulling." Stepping off her small stool, Christine stood next to a rather engulfed Poppy.

"I agree there." Poppy replied still, opening the folder and grinning. "'Don Juan Triumphant, by Erik Destler.'" She read before passing it, carefully, down to Christine. "Seems we have found the rest of the piece. I wonder when it got so damaged…"

"I don't think I care! The whole thing is beautiful, Poppy!" Christine hummed, then quite literally began to hum out the piece, absorbed instantly into the music.

After listening to Christine hum for a moment, Poppy began to poke around down some of the other aisles for some more music books, curious if she could find more information on the composer. But, after examining multiple indexes of a plethora of history books on composers, she soon decided it would take several days to look through all the books in the archives to find anything worth value. Poppy therefore abandoned her pursuit.

"It's certainly a beautiful piece. It'll work great for the audition since it's not particularly fresh but it is unique."

Christine made to reply to her friend, but something was off in her surroundings. Poppy had only been gone a few minutes, but the brunette soprano could have sworn she'd seen… blood? It had been on her hands and seeping through the notes…

"Uh… Unique, yes. You will be playing for me, right Poppy? I would be nothing without a good accompanist!" She was able to mask whatever it was that had happened, but her friend eyed her skeptically. But, after she didn't appear to be forthcoming with what was wrong, she responded and put away her skepticism.

"If you picked anyone else to be your accompanist, I'd be jealous. Of course I'll play. Let's make some copies of this so I can practice the music and you can learn the words."

"Then maybe Rick won't yell at us, heaven knows he wants to keep me 'safe.' Whatever that means!" Christine said in a unanimous giggle with Poppy.

"Are you girls ready yet?"

"Speak of the devil." Christine whispered with a grin.

"Yes, we're ready, Rick. We need to make copies of this but we're done." Poppy waved the folder at her brother and grinned, marching away towards the copier. "You better start locking up. We'll be done in several minutes."

"Several?" Rick said aghast after her, "I guess I will take my time locking up then."

Christine just smiled as he walked away, but he did not do so before stealing a kiss when his sister's back was turned, her hearing the tell-tale peck but ignoring it. Avoiding looking at the lovey-dovey pair, she scampered up the stairs to the copier room and began to carefully make copies of the music, handling each paper carefully to avoid losing anything. Corners broke off multiple times and the burned parts quickly tumbled to the floor but the main part of the music was never harmed.

Poppy glanced over the notes, exotic and different beyond what she was used to playing, but that's what would make Christine sound great! Poppy knew her friend would have done that anyway, but a little help never bothered anyone.

When all of the papers were copied, two copies fresh in her hand and the original safely tucked within the folder under her arm, she returned to her friend and brother who had reunited. Although she was feeling rather sad to separate from the music, Poppy handed a single replica over to Christine.

"Would you like to keep that for a while, Poppy?" Her brother asked quickly, seeing the way she eyed the folder.

"I'd say she does! Just make sure you're ready for my audition tomorrow, alright?" Christine made sure to mention, taking Poppy by the hand and looking at her with a pleading visage.

"I'll be ready." Poppy said. "You be ready too. It's not long to practice a piece of music. And, this is unique music." She held the folder carefully in her hands. "We'll get together tomorrow morning, just before the audition to practice together."

"Sounds good! Which means…" Christine drawled and turned to Rick, "I'm going to my place tonight, I'll see you after the audition tomorrow!" She gave the man no time to reply and bounced from the building, excited for the day to come.

As it was already late, Rick let Poppy out of the building, then closed the final door, bidding his sister a good night, playfully upset with her that she'd caused him to have an absent Christine.

Poppy laughed at his playfulness and returned to her small apartment. Once inside with the heater on, she set the music on the piano's stand and began to practice measure by measure. Time passed quickly as the music sucked her into it's beauty and otherworldliness, but time was of no matter when such beauty was placed on decaying paper with a heavy intent to be played.

Lithe fingers from her practice as a doctor made everything easier when it came to playing pieces nowadays, for she used to play, but never this well. When the clock chimed three in the morning, though, Poppy took to a hope that maybe she could get a little sleep, at least. She closed the score and left it on the piano for the morning. Maybe it would help her uncover something about the composer!

Slowly, Poppy moved through the halls and changed into pajamas, doing her nightly routine before settling into her soft covers with a hesitant glance over to the music on her nightstand. She couldn't bare to part with any of it. There was just something about the way the music spoke to her, the way everything came together, and the passion that crawled over every page of the composer's work. He must have been a genius, no matter what he'd done to the human world, Erik Destler was a magnificent musician.

One that intrigued Poppy beyond her belief, one that she had need to know more of. What little she knew was enough for tomorrow's audition, but for her insatiable curiosity? Maybe in the morning, a little research before performance time might do her wandering thoughts some good, for she just had to know more.

Contenting herself with such a decision, Poppy turned off her light and relaxed, soon falling asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:**

Dear Readers,

No reviews? Come on, people! Surely some of you have to enjoy this version! Oh well, I shall continue to post. If nothing else than because I enjoy this book very much.

sarahandmarquis

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Disclaimer: I do not own the Robert Englund version of the Phantom of the Opera or of the Phantom of the Opera in general. Casuallllfollower and I together own Poppy (don't mess with her) and this story idea.

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 **CHAPTER 2**

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When the morning dawned, Poppy rose early and caught a cab to the Library.

As she sped through the city, she suddenly felt very lucky that she'd asked for this day off from the ER specifically to help Christine with her audition… though now Poppy had an alternative motive. Her mind was ever so curious as to this Erik Destler and his strange music… and whatever it was that made his allure so poignant. The library could not be reached quickly enough.

Fortunately, the cab soon stopped in front of the several-stories-tall brick structure unadorned with any decoration. After paying the cabby his fare and instructing him to keep the change to lessen her wait, she hurried from the sidewalk through the twin swinging doors into the lobby.

Once inside the archaic building, she wound her way through the immense bookshelves and studying college students to the file cabinets, housing every title that the library owned. Setting her things down on a small table, she began to look through every drawer and pulling various cards that told her the locations of books on obscure composers.

With a sufficient number of cards to provide her a likely chance of finding information, Poppy pulled her long hair back into quick ponytail and began to easily navigate the library's many shelves, cards clutched tightly in her hands while she pulled their corresponding books off the shelf. When she couldn't hold any more books, she returned to her spot by the card catalog and slid into a chair, ready to read as much as time would allow.

Picking up the most likely candidate for information, she flipped the back pages of the book and skimmed through the list of names, helpfully recorded with their page numbers for ease of location. After an agonizing moment, she found "Destler" and "Don Juan Triumphant" with only a single page number devoted to each of the topics. Sighing, she pulled out a pocket notebook and began to record the tidbits of information pertaining to her inquiry.

After searching all her many books, Poppy looked at her notes and pieced together as much of the history about her mysterious composer as she could, including an interesting tidbit about his haunting an Opera House in London. Don Juan Triumphant only told her so much as fiction, but seeing her notes on the man who masqueraded as a ghost… this Erik Destler, a composer of the highest degree who wrote an ancient piece of beautiful music.

For the longest moment, Poppy stared blankly at a wall. All this new information was baffling, to say little, but excitement also ran through her. Following her feelings of intense shock was blinding grief. All the books spoke of a tragic love he suffered. Passionately obsessed with a young soprano, he had been shattered upon rejection, leading him to murder. Intense feelings of sympathy welled up within her and a stray tear escaped from her eyelashes. Rick's information had been proven correct, and this man had really lived, really loved, and probably died broken hearted.

Wiping away the single trail running down her cheek, Poppy picked herself up and returned the books, though not without a heavy heart, and the hope that no tears stained the pages.

The watch on her wrist indicated her sudden need to meet Christine at the theatre, and it was now or never to get herself together and present for her friend's audition. The notebook page was then carefully stored inside the folder with the original music pieces on her way out. Leaving the library as quickly as she could, she caught a cab to the theatre and hurried inside to see Christine waiting in the foyer.

"Did you practice?" Christine asked nervously, though there was a hint of confidence there, especially in the outfit that she put together, a cute black mini-skirt with a long-sleeved, flared suit jacket in a dark purple.

"Of course I practiced. I have the music down perfectly. How are you with the words?" Poppy asked, removing the folder from under her arm and holding it carefully in both hands.

"Better than ever." Christine smoothly voiced. "It's so natural and melodic… almost like someone wrote it specifically for me; it fits that well to my voice."

"A stroke of good luck then. Do you think they would allow us to run through it once or twice together? I know the piece backwards and forwards but I want to be sure that we will mesh well."

"Yeah, they have a few pianos set up in those rooms over there for quick practices. Oh and they told me I was up in fifteen minutes," Christine spoke while indicating to a set of three doors. Luckily, one of them was open so that they could hopefully smooth out any problems the musical duo might encounter during Christine's audition.

"Then we have no time to lose." Poppy quickly ushered Christine into the room and they began to perfect their harmony. At first, Christine missed her entrance, but it only happened that one time and then they melded their music together wonderfully, the notes intertwining to create not only a stunning vocal performance, but a noteworthy accompaniment as well.

"I think our time is almost up, Poppy; I think I'm ready!" Christine said with a sudden confidence that shone through, the sound giving her the final indication that this audition was hers.

"I agree." Poppy replied and gathered her music from the stand. "Let's go to the auditorium and see if the judge agrees with us." Confidence clung to her as well as they walked through the large doors and down the side aisle to line up behind the next auditioner.

Watching the girl before her get coldly dismissed should have made Christine worry, but walking onto that stage with Poppy next to her was everything she needed. Like her, Poppy, might have been worried, but since Christine hardly even thought of it, she took her seat at the piano while the soprano stood in the middle of the stage, several feet away from her and introduced herself.

"My name is Christine Day. I'm second year at Juilliard. And, I've done a couple of things. Mostly classical. I've studied with -" Before she could finish her sentence, the judge interrupted her.

"Yes, that's fine. What are you going to sing for us today?"

"I'm going to do a piece from Don Juan Triumphant by Erik Destler." Just as she was about to nod to Poppy to begin the intro, the stage hands caused a commotion above them but the judge, after shouting at them to quiet down, gestured for them to begin. Taking a deep, calming breath, Poppy played the entrance, shivering at the thought of performing the Opera Ghost's music. She wished with all her heart that she was playing in a way his music deserved as a way to honor his memory.

Accompanied by the haunted music, Christine sounded no less than seraphic as her lungs and vocal cords created the most chilling sounds ever heard in that theatre.

When the last perfect note faded, echoes still carrying through the auditorium, not a sound broke the ethereal moment. All eyes were on Christine, there was not a solitary individual able to remove their gaze from the producer of such wonderful music. However, that didn't stop Poppy from being the first to break the stillness by running over to her and giving her a congratulatory hug.

Yet, before words of praise had escaped her mouth, she heard a crash overhead and a large object plummeted towards them. Instinctively, they shielded their eyes as shattering glass was the last thing they saw when, for both girls, everything faded to black.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:**

Dear Readers,

Third installment! Maybe this will catch some of y'all's attention. Fun begins in this chapter...all the fun you would associate with this version. Blood! Gore! Death! All that stuff. :D Please enjoy and review!

sarahandmarquis

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Disclaimer: I do not own the Robert Englund version of the Phantom of the Opera or of the Phantom of the Opera in general. casuallllfollower and I together own Poppy (don't mess with her) and this story idea.

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Reviews:

Child of Dreams: Here is your requested "more"! I hope you enjoy it very much! Thanks for reviewing!

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 **CHAPTER 3**

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Christine awoke groggily, her mind coming to as people around her worried over her while she lay on a hardwood stage. Her concern for Poppy the first thing on her mind, she tried to pull herself to her feet and failed when her head swam. Instead, she chose to drag herself the short distance to her friend's prone form, not caring for herself even if many called her name and made huffs of irritation at her insisting to move.

"Poppy, are you alright?" Christine asked her friend forcefully, tugging at her shoulder and rousing Poppy from her unconscious state. After blinking once or twice and rolling onto her back with bits of broken glass crunched under her weight, her eyes adjusted to the light and she nodded, touching her forehead to feel if there were any injuries. Fortunately, enough, she found none.

"Yes. I'm all right. Are you?" Poppy turned to her just as the scene shifter lowered himself down on a rope and began to apologize profusely. His excuses and apologies were met with frustrated comments from the leading diva and generally ignored by all.

"I believe so. Though you look a slight confused. You do recall who you are, right?" Christine said more as joke, but Poppy only looked more confused as she glanced around the Victorian-era people peering down at the recently injured pair. Old fashioned make-up, antique costumes, and the heavy English accent, obviously not from their New York City home - these all insinuated to her that both she and Christine had traveled through time and space.

"Of course, I do!" She laughed, plastering on a fake smile, choosing immediately to hide her knowledge of where they came from. She stood up with the help of one of the extras before offering her hand to Christine and confirming the answer. "I'm Poppy Dutton. But, where am I?"

"The London Opera House, silly! Are you sure your brain hasn't been addled with that strike?" Christine asked, patting Poppy's hands.

"Oh! Yeah, I remember. I'm fine." She replied, as in that moment her 'memories' from the past came rushing in. Memories she had not recollections of before but now knew clearly. At the same time, she still remembered her life in the future, the one she had been thrown out of with positively no choice.

"Well then… I think we need a second, if that is alright?" Christine hoped towards the crowd that had gathered. Most waved her off, a few sent reassuring smiles as she and Poppy escorted one another from the stage. In their wake, sounds of conversation, shouted orders, and singing resumed. to Christine's dressing room and settled into a pair of chairs in the light-colored room lit by small room held just a few chairs, a small day bed, and a vanity, but it functioned no less comfortably.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Christine asked a final time seeing as they were alone.

"Yes, I am. My head hurts a little and I feel a bit out of sorts but nothing unusual after being hit with a weight. Don't worry about me." Poppy reassured her, closing her eyes and relaxing for a moment, grateful for the quiet to ease her thundering skull. With the peace and quiet finally restored she had the thought that perhaps Christine also remembered her future self but, from the way she was acting, it felt very unlikely. Since the girl already worried about her sanity, she decided against speaking to her about it.

"If you are positive then I guess I cannot argue… so what had you come all the way on stage for? You know the director only tolerates you because you are Richard's sister!" Christine giggled, leaning back, a sort of serene feeling coming over her at the thought of relaxing instead of suffering through a grueling practice made torturous with Carlotta's shrieks.

"I heard you singing and wanted to see how you were doing. Your voice sounded particularly good tonight." A screeching, attempting to be stage-worthy singing, resounded through the Opera House as if on cue and Poppy flinched. "I need cotton balls."

"It's harder being her understudy!" Christine said with a laugh, "But she is the diva, therefore she gets the roles."

"And we all know how she keeps her position as the diva." Poppy winked at Christine and chuckled before clutching her head when the screeching sounded again.

"Dear heavens does she ever stop?" Christine moaned, and the two laughed together, grateful to be no closer than they were and to have walls blocking much of the sound.

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After a run-in with his co-workers over the accident with the young understudy, the scene shifter Buquet muttered a sufficient "Go to hell," and returned to his job, taking a drink as he climbed the catwalks and checked the ropes.

"Joseph…" A haunting voice drifted past the scene shifter as he climbed up a ladder to a higher catwalk, setting him on edge. "Joseph…"

After a long moment with no speaking, Buquet relaxed, assuring himself that he had imagined the voices. A second later, the light sound of two boots striking the wooden planking caught his attention and he spun to face the man. The stranger cut a tall, imposing figure, matched with strong facial lines, a square jaw chin and the gleam of the devil in his eyes. Buquet clutched his drink, finding steadiness in it.

"Yes, let's have that drink." Taking the bottle from the offered hand of the terrified Buquet, the figure gestured with it as he continued, "So, your bumbling was the work of a ghost?" He arched an eyebrow before taking a quick drink.

"Nah, nah, it was an accident." He shrugged it off.

"But, you blamed me." The ghost replied, tossing the bottle of spirits to the hard stage below, glass shattering in every direction upon impact.

"It won't happen again!" Buquet tried to appease fervently, eyes wide with fear.

"No, it won't." His feral blue eyes glowed. "You're suspended." Without warning, a strong boot struck Buquet in the chin as the ghost activated a pulley, tightening a rope around his ankle before he hurtled to the ground, dragging a background scene up as he plummeted.

Buquet jerked to a stop, dangling upside down below the ghost. Stepping back a few steps, he tripped a lever and the set piece dropped, dragging Buquet upward. Unsheathing a knife, he waited until the scene shifter had, helplessly, been pulled up before stabbing the knife into his stomach and slicing him from stem to stern. Blood splattered all over his face and covered the catwalk.

After the expired Buquet had ceased to twitch above him, he sliced the rope holding him and dropped the limp corpse, gushing blood, to the catwalk. Working quickly, he peeled the man's skin from his body, pleased to see it would be sufficient for several weeks if carefully preserved. As he carefully stored away the last piece, a delightful idea came into his mind.

"I should give a present to the diva for her lovely practice today." Grinning, he carried the scene shifter through his secret tunnels and into the diva's private dressing room, before storing him safely away in her wardrobe. It would only be a matter of time before she noticed the pool of blood gathered beneath it. He didn't hang around long, desperately needing to change out of his blood-soaked suit and store the skin. He could hardly be late for his lesson with Christine!

Taking liberal steps, his excitement overbearing, he settled what he needed to and finally went to assure Christine in her lesson that she would be the diva, no, the star, that night. When he finally reached her dressing room, his eyes watched as her friend vacated the small area. He'd seen her before and dismissed her as nothing more than the owner's sister. Besides, with her gone, Christine was his alone.

"You were in fine voice today, Christine." He spoke soothingly, watching as she perked to his presence. While slightly unsure, Christine dared to ask aloud:

"It's you, isn't it?"

"Who else, Christine, but your teacher. Your angel." He assured her.

"There was an accident… Something happened," Christine added.

"It's of no importance." He declared. "What matters is music. Finish the song for me." He commanded, briefly congratulating himself on having dealt with the origin of the 'accident'.

"But you never show yourself to me," she defied, feeling defeated by his absence.

"I will soon. Now, sing." He ordered, hoping to distract her from her currently unfulfillable desires with singing and frivolous promises. Christine began to sing as he commanded, taking the chorus part and putting in an effort to please, closing her eyes as she fulfilled his demand. Almost immediately she was cut off by his voice once again, however, asking something of her.

"No. The lead. Carlotta's part. That's the role you want, isn't it? You're the only one who can sing Marguerite as it was meant to be sung. Sing." The command couldn't have been more clear, so she sang the lead that her voice and her understudy training knew well. Though again she was stopped. Her mind was anxious, she'd sung the lead for him, hadn't she? What could be wrong?

"No! With passion. With desire. Your voice and your heart must be one. Now sing like an angel."

She had no trouble obeying, the lilt of his voice almost threading into her own as Christine sang with passion for him. Her eyes were closed, but her face reflected the emotion that she put forth to give him.

"You are ready, Christine. Tonight, the world will hear you sing."

Stuttering over a response, she could only choke out one word. Even if it sounded straight, there was hesitancy in it…

"Tonight?"

"Tonight, the world will love you."

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The deep voice carried easily through the thin walls of the dressing room to Poppy, standing frozen outside of her friend's door. She'd heard every word of the "angel" who spoke to Christine, his voice sending chills down her spine, chills that spawned curiosity. Fueled by her knowledge, acquired before her relocation into the nineteenth century, she turned away from the door and hurried back to her room. Angels didn't teach chorus girls and understudies how to sing. Perhaps it was a bit of a gamble on her part, but there were legends of a ghost haunting the London Opera House, legends he was also a composer… was it possible that it was the same person who she had researched before leaving?

After finding a more comfortable dress, Poppy tied back her hair and grabbed a ball of heavy wool yarn. It wouldn't do to get lost down in the caverns below the Opera while in pursuit of the infamous Opera Ghost.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note:

Dear Readers,

Chapter 4 is here! Now…our two leads meet…I hope y'all enjoy!

 **sarahandmarquis**

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Disclaimer: I do not own the Robert Englund version of the Phantom of the Opera or of the Phantom of the Opera in general. casuallllfollower and I together own Poppy (don't mess with her) and this story idea.

.

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Reviews:

Guest: All chapters must come to an end but here is a continuation! I hope you enjoy!

Child of Dreams: Well, I will say the movie is rated R for a reason. But, I think this shall be a lot nicer to the mind then actually watching. The movie is very bloody but also lots of fun and no words can describe how awesome and bad-ass this Erik is (which always makes me sad). If you have any questions or concerns, please message me about them.

Bonpetitepoodles: We shall see how he is redeemed and what happens. ;)

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 **CHAPTER 3**

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Tossing the yarn that she'd grabbed in hopes to keep her place below the opera, Poppy walked towards the general direction of the basement, determination in her step. Everything she knew about the opera from her supposed life there, and everything she learned back at home, accumulated at the forefront of her thoughts. She knew so much from her studying, yet her excitement was dulled by reason. Could this really be the elusive Phantom? This was certainly not Paris, and never in her right mind had Poppy imagined that her Christine could be the one mentioned in his tales of heartbreak… the one doted upon by a sweet and caring ghost. Then again, what other explanation was there for a demanding man in her friend's rooms? One who hadn't even shown himself to her.

The floors turned colder as Poppy walked lower and lower… wondering just how far would be needed to go. On top of the cold, it grew darker, light becoming increasingly harder to come by in the rough caverns. Water dripped off the walls, and the beams holding up the weight of the ceiling above her creaked. Taking a deep breath to steel her courage, Poppy continued on. Fear of failure almost drove her back the way she had come, but reason intervened and reminded her now that she had come this far so there was no point in turning back.

Just as she reached a wide place in the caverns, hung with some stalactites, she froze, feeling eyes watching her.

It was easy to feel the change in surroundings, how suddenly a presence existed that hadn't been there before. There was no telling who… or what was in the caverns with her, but Poppy held a suspicious hope close to her.

"Hello? Mister Phantom?" She called, holding out the lantern and peering into the dark corners as if they would suddenly reply with who watched her. "I mean no harm to you." Hopefully, extending the olive branch to him would spare her life. She remembered too late she was searching for a known killer with no conscience.

"I imagine if anyone means harm, it may just be me," a soothing voice replied, echoing as though he were everywhere.

Turning around several times, she attempted to pinpoint the location of his voice but failed. Struggling between happiness for finding the Phantom and concern at having done just that, she replied,

"I'd appreciate very much surviving this encounter."

"And what do you have to live for? Such audacity for the owner's sister…" His drawl came to her, threatening and proving he knew his opera house well, "Your importance stands merely in befriending Christine."

"How pleasant to know I am only important as I relate to others." She set the lantern down on the floor and found a mostly flat rock to sit on, her feet tired and hurting from the long walk and the confining shoes she wore. "I would think importance of life would be in the very fact it is living."

"Living… dead… if you truly were important it would not matter either way," he quipped, the grin almost heard in his voice.

"If I were truly important, it would matter a great deal whether I am dead or alive. The dead are rarely as important as the living for changing the current lives of people."

Laughter answered. It was an enchanting sound compared to the laughs Poppy had heard over the years. She tried not to smile as he began yet another reply. Was this banter she was committing with the opera ghost?

"Never, in my short time of spectating you, have your words been equipped so well with wit. As far as I had gathered, you would never step below the stage let alone the cells. What has brought about this great change?"

"A person is allowed to turn over a new leaf, are they not?" She inquired, recalling the memories of the girl before she had been transported back. She had been quite a coward and not quick with her tongue. It pleased Poppy that her personality had come back through time with her.

"Those with the capacity to do so… yet most of these turnings do call for an event to have taken place. As far as I am aware, you have merely been hit by a weight on this day."

"Perhaps a little jarring was sufficient? And, besides, today is the first day I have overheard you teaching Christine to sing." She glanced about her, curious to see the response from the dangerous Phantom at discovering his lesson weren't so secretive as he and Christine no doubt believed they were.

He snarled at her.

"Overheard? Eavesdropping is the accurate term for what you have done." It came as a threat; Poppy could tell in the rasp his voice suddenly took when accusing her.

"Would you expect anything less from a friend who begins to knock on her friend's door and hears a man speaking to her? I eavesdropped merely to be sure she wasn't in danger." While the rasp did make her nervous, she found some safety in the fact he hadn't killed her yet. Yet.

"Danger?" He posed incredulously, "No, never is she in danger with me." All the threat had vanished in the first question, yet the second statement took on a hostile lilt. Offense was the word that Poppy caught in his tone.

"I am pleased to hear your attempts at assurances. How am I supposed to know if she is or isn't?" She retorted, not apologizing for having offended him as she considered it a sensible question requiring a sensible answer.

"And there you speak the truth, but to address your question, trust might simply have to be established. Obviously, you trust I shan't kill you with your unseemly trespassing, so will you struggle with this?" He wondered smugly.

"I don't trust you not to kill me." She replied, cutting the legs out from under his theories.

A small and unsatisfied huff came from him, and as it echoed around the room, he made to reply.

"That makes this fun then…"

"You are a very dangerous person if rumors floating about the Opera House are to believed." Poppy commented. "There is no reason for me to trust you with anything, let alone my own life."

"And what have you heard?"

It was a dangerous question, for it proved his curiosity now delving into her, but it also tested Poppy's mind. Her memories were scarce and she had mostly stated her original belief on memories gathered before her departure. Searching deep in her brain, she found fleeting thoughts involving stories the Opera employees had told.

"That you've killed people in the past to get your way at the Opera."

"Some are more... stubborn than others," his reply came tauntingly.

"I suppose murder would, while not moral, be effective in dealing with them." She agreed, seeing he possessed a sick sense of logic, unbounded by morality. Indeed, the most dangerous kind of logic, the kind that had bred death and destruction.

"Effective… not many -even if they prove to be understanding- can look through my eyes and see the value in my thoughts."

"They are very logical but highly immoral." She stated. "Humans should be governed by both the laws of logic and morality. You broke one but at least you weren't stupid while doing it."

She earned a chuckle with her statement.

"How… above your education," he insulted her. Poppy responded with a sniff and a toss of her head.

"Just because my proper education might not be as great as my male counterparts receive, that doesn't mean I am ignorant." How tempted she had been to retort that she had more years of education that most men of the nineteenth century but that would have given her away. "Proper education doesn't judge the mental level of a person. Someone who hasn't yet learned to read can think deeper thoughts than leading scholars."

"Forward thinking, brash, sensible… where have you been hiding such a side to yourself?" He asked her, a genuine tone taking over with. Was that respect Poppy's ear detected?

"Inside my brain. Mental prowess is not easily found within the Opera House's walls. Men don't listen and the women have no deeper thoughts than what man they will flirt with next." A wry chuckled escaped her as she accepted his compliments.

"You speak as though there could ever be a change, as though people could change," he said in conversation, but it was obvious there was an underlying problem in his statement, one with personal effect.

"One can always hope." Poppy offered, smiling in the direction she hoped his voice was coming from.

"Has your curious nature been sated as to who teaches your friend?""No." She replied simply. "I have yet to see you."

"See me! What makes you, the mere overshadowed, underappreciated sister, think she deserves such a privilege?" He half joked with her, but his abusive words were all in defense to get her to let him alone: Poppy had seen it in patients when they did not wish to be cared for.

"I don't see why not. After all, you have spent quite a bit of time in verbal banter. I must deserve something for you to spend so much time." She put on a cheery smile.

"You expect much, curious one. Besides such, I don't often get to match wit with those worthy of doing so."

"I wouldn't expect you would considering your choice of homes." She replied, glancing downward at her lantern and noticing the oil was running low.

"How do you know I live here?" The question rang through the air, his tone suddenly on-guard.

"It's not a secret." She replied, giggling. "All the staff know you live somewhere in the caves beneath the Opera's cellars."

"Ah," defeat lie in his clipped response. Poppy knew that every time he sounded close in figuring any minute detail about him, she vanished it with a skillful reply. Maybe she was better at this than he. Also, her mind was arguing that if she did not vacant the lower cellars soon, she would be returning up in the dark.

"Look, I'm almost out of oil and I have to go back if I don't want to find my way in the pitch black. But, I would like to come back to meet with you again." She rose to her feet and grabbed the lantern.

"Meet with me? Again?" Was it malice or excitement in his perfect voice? "Where would this take place?"

"Why not right here? This is a nice little place and I can just follow my string down." Tying the end of the thread to a pointy rock, she gestured towards it. "It shouldn't be a problem."

"If that leads anyone down here but you… you seem to know me well enough to gather what would happen to your well being," he drawled, but Poppy didn't miss the jesting.

"Yes." She replied. "But, I doubt anyone would find the other end, let alone be willing to follow it down. You've scared everyone up there very neatly."

A content huff came from the man who had yet to be seen by her black eyes, and with it followed the small command.

"Go then, Miss Dutton."

"Goodbye...Erik," she said, gathering her skirts and following the string back to the surface. Poppy couldn't hear any response of his as she'd gone too quickly, but stunned silence met the small concave she'd resided in but moments prior.

Erik just stared on at the disappearing woman, sudden confusion and intrigue infiltrating his once calmed thoughts. Just when he thought the young woman in front of him could truly still be normal… she went and proved him wrong.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note:

Dear Readers,

So, I may have forgotten to post this...Whoops. I'm really sorry. My life hasn't been well put together the last few months so I'm not surprised I forgot. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

sarahandmarquis.

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CHAPTER 5

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"Do you mind?" Half of the managerial team insisted, already pushed through the company and now standing at his star's doorway. After knocking, the door was swept open by Carlotta's maid who greeted him pleasantly, stepping aside to allow him in.

"Oh, Mr. Barton, Ms. Carlotta is expecting you." Several of the company, occupying the space outside the door tried to peer around her, but she slammed the door in their faces before resuming her work inside the dressing room.

"Thank you. Carlotta!" He went forwards into the room, roses in hand for the woman who was submerged into what could only be warm water.

"Oh, Mr. Barton, come in. I don't usually see anyone before a performance." The woman replied, lifting one elegant leg from the sea of bubbles to wash it carefully.

"I'm flattered," he replied, kneeling on the steps that led to her tub. He attempted to hand her the roses he'd brought in offering, even if her hands were obviously occupied. Ignoring his offering, she called for her maid to grab the flowers. She approached and whisked them away.

"Perhaps they'll brighten up this rats nest you call a dressing room." She stated.

With an annoyed scrunch of his eyes, he amended, "This is the best room in the house."

"Then the house is lacking." She declared, offering him the sponge "My back?" She turned around to allow him to wash it.

Taking it contemptuously, Barton replied with business, "I have your contract. I think you'll find everything to your satisfaction."

"A larger room would be better. I barely have enough room for my things." She glanced about, her apparent disdain apparent.

"Yes, well, we can discuss the finer points later in good faith," true business cast aside once again.

"That is for the good and faithful." She turned in the bath to face him. Leaning back in the tub and acting the part of a Diva, she said, "That young lady, Christine, I want her back in the chorus."

"She was lucky enough to play Sybille," he said, truly believing the words he spoke, "To you, she's just an understudy!"

"I want her out." She commanded, aware that Christine's talent far exceeded her own.

"Don't test me, Carlotta. I could drown you too easily," he threatened, seriousness taking over him, thought it seemed to pass through one ear on her pretty head right through the next.

"Better submerged in bath water than mediocrity. Don't you agree?" She replied, turning his statement onto him. Flinging the sponge into the water, he bounded to his feet and flung his arms out.

"All you have to do is sign!" He conceded frustrated at her blatant want for nothing but more, more, and more!

"I'll sing." She raised her voice to match his before lowering it meaningfully, "You think about what I said." Ending the conversation, she called for her maid. "Esther!" The girl approached and held out her bath towel so that she could dry off.

"You bitch," he resigned, pushing himself from the room, his hands clamped in pure frustration with the Diva.

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Before the performance, there was a discussion that must be had, and Barton was sure to carry through as he walked alongside his partner.

"I find it little wonder that the Opera was in the red when we found it," he spoke quickly.

"How's that?" Richard replied, walking beside him down the smog filled streets of London.

Barton scoffed, "For a start, there's a monthly debit of 300. No receipt. No invoice. Nothing!"

"That's a stipend to the Opera Ghost. The Phantom." They paused for a moment, allowing a carriage to rattle by before they crossed the street.

"The what?" He replied, aghast at such an insinuation in his opera.

"The Phantom's theater tradition, old boy. Box Five is held for him every night. I know it's silly but you know how these artist people are." He answered, an air of tolerance in his tone.

"I know how bankers are. My God, Richard, Box Five is on the ground tier. Four seats. Who actually sits there?" Barton resolved.

"No one. That's the whole point. It's the phantom's box. I'm told it wards off the evil eye or some such thing." He shrugged the statement, the facts not bothering him particularly.

"For 300 a month and a private box, I'll risk a gypsy curse," he said, for they bothered Barton immensely! Where did any of it go! What did it look like to have an empty box in such a prestigious theatre?!

Sighing, Richard fixed Barton with a steady eye. "On opening night?" He inquired.

While he might not have liked it… the superstitions kept the company in check… "No," he agreed.

Finally, as if all had fallen into place just so perfectly, there would be a performance tonight… a perfect one with Christine Day as the lead. His suit was pristine, and while he could certainly not say the same for his face, it made him secure to know that at least there was more than one thing going well that night. There was no better pleasure than sitting in his dark and private box, the seats allowing him to sink in and prepare to enjoy the best show the opera would perform.

Suddenly, the door to the private box creaked open and light footsteps trod on the lush carpet, followed by a giggle and the door closing.

"So, we meet again."

An abrupt turn and jump Erik made to be greeted, in person, by the young woman who so brashly spoke to him that same day. He tried to remain composed, on his feet as though there were true pride within him.

"It seems to be rightly this time, no? Face to…" the pause did not go unwarranted as he gestured to his own visage with the lilt in his voice, "Face."

"Indeed." She settled herself into a seat behind him and relaxed comfortably in the soft chairs. "It is a pleasure to meet you properly."

Erik let out a sound that surprised him, even, but it could all be chalked up to the anticipation of the entertainment.

"It shan't be such a pleasure if you talk at all during Christine's performance."

"Shan't be a pleasure for you and me?" She inquired.

"Oh, I assure you that it will be a pleasure for me," he answered sharply. Erik was aware of his surroundings, the tuning of instruments and the small indications of the performance starting soon.

"Perhaps we could come to a compromise. I'll be quiet when she's on stage and free to mutter about the mediocre state of the rest of the company while she is off stage?" She offered, giving him a smile.

He chuckled and found that he quite liked such a proposition.

"I have no interest in the mediocrity of the rest of the company, therefore I shall accept your compromise." Erik felt rather proud of his diplomacy.

"Excellent." Grinning, she folded her hands in her lap.

He could hear the rustle of her gowns, the way she so calmly settled behind him for some unknown purpose. What exactly was her purpose in his box? Most dared not to enter for fear of superstition.

"Why are you here, again?" He wondered aloud.

"A dare." She replied. "One of the stagehands thought it'd be funny to dare me to come in here. He mentioned something about 'a weak female' and laughed with his buddies that I wouldn't do it. As you can see, here I am."

"Here you are. What a risk you took, Miss Kline."

"Well, you didn't hurt me when I scouted through your tunnels so I hoped you wouldn't mind too much a solitary invasion of your box."

"As long as no other pests of this opera follow you," Erik said shiftily, looking upon the stage with anticipation.

"I doubt it. They were all too afraid." She stated, turning her eyes towards the stage to see what would happen.

"And yet not fearful enough," he muttered, happy the lights were going away, thrilled that it meant Christine's voice would greet his ears. Poppy opened her mouth to respond, but the curtains swept open and the Opera scene began, one of Christine's scenes, meaning she had to remain quiet.

And for Erik, there was no better joy than listening to Christine sing her rightful part. Seraphic must have been an understatement for the young woman who poured her voice to the wanting audience, yet none could have been as happy to hear her than him. The moment didn't last forever, though, as it seemed the mere moment Christine was gone from the spotlight, Poppy leaned in to speak in his ear.

"She did well. I'm very proud of her." Poppy commented, watching as the curtains closed a moment before reopening to a scene devoid of her friend.

"Well? That is all you can say is: Well?" Erik tried to control the height of his voice, but others glanced, and he had to momentarily duck from sight. Poppy quietly giggled before saying,

"I'm not the expert. You are. I will keep my comments to general terms. Did you approve?" She asked, though she didn't need any verbal confirmation.

And he seemed apt to give none as an entrance induced their agreed silence.

The rest of the opera went on as such, and from it, at the very least, Poppy felt like she was getting somewhere with the oh-so-real Phantom.


End file.
